Page 47 of The Ruling Class (The Fixer #1)

Henry wasn’t just ignoring me. He was avoiding me. When he saw me coming his way, he made his excuses to the group he was talking to and ducked into the boys’ bathroom.

Presumably, he thought that I would not follow him.

He obviously did not know me very well.

Henry cast a glance at the door when it opened behind him, then did a double take when he realized it was me.

“Really?” he said dryly.

I leaned back against the door, blocking his exit.

“Get out of my way, Ms. Kendrick.”

“Ms. Kendrick,” I repeated. “We’re not even on a first-name basis anymore?”

He didn’t reply. I didn’t know how much of his avoiding me was because he was angry at me for being Ivy’s sister, for trusting her, even a little, and how much of it was him being angry at himself for telling me about his father.

“Must we do this?” Henry asked, his voice painfully polite.

“I’ll get out of your way once you’ve listened to what I have to say,” I told him. “Otherwise, we can stay here and stare at each other.”

He glared at me. I offered him a lazy smile in return. He snapped.

“Talk,” he ordered crisply.

“I’ve got a plan for trying to figure out who leaked the story about Pierce.”

Henry’s face didn’t move a muscle, but he couldn’t quite squelch the flicker of interest in his eyes. “I thought the sum total of your plan was to let your sister do her job.”

Now that I knew where Henry’s feelings about Ivy came from, I couldn’t steel myself against them in the same way.

Objectively, maybe Ivy had done the Marquette family a favor by making Henry’s father’s death seem like an accident, but I couldn’t expect Henry to be objective about something like that.

He was the one who had to live with the secret.

His father wasn’t here. His grandfather wasn’t here.

Ivy was the only one left to blame.

“My sister has been otherwise occupied,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “She doesn’t think this is a lead worth following up on.” A hint of interest sparked in Henry’s eyes. I pushed on. “I do.”

Henry cracked the barest of smiles. “And you have a plan.”

“It’s not really a plan,” I said, “so much as a gamble.”

Someone attempted to open the door to the bathroom, and I leaned back against it harder.

Henry cleared his throat. “Would it be possible to talk about your gamble in a slightly less inappropriate location?”

“If you really want to.” I eased off the door and opened it, ignoring the stare of the boy on the other side. Now it was my turn to arch an eyebrow at Henry.

“After you.”

I texted Bodie that Vivvie and I needed to work on a project after school.

To add credence to that story, Henry and I met the reporter at Vivvie’s—or, more specifically, in the lobby of the Roosevelt Hotel, where Vivvie and her aunt were staying until her aunt could find more permanent lodging.

Vivvie watched from a nearby coffee shop.

Her aunt was with her but had her back to us.

Let’s hope it stays that way , I thought.

I looked at my watch. The reporter from the Post was supposed to meet us here any minute.

“Tess Kendrick?” A red-haired man with a reddish brown beard approached. His eyes flicked over to Henry, and I saw a spark of recognition.

Good.

“Carson Dweck?” I said. He nodded.

“I hear you need to talk to a reporter for a school project.” The man’s lips curved up slightly. “Hardwicke—very big on projects, aren’t they?”

I wondered if he would have said yes to his honorary niece’s request if I hadn’t gone to Hardwicke. And then I wondered if he would have said yes if my last name hadn’t been Kendrick.

“You wrote the piece on Edmund Pierce,” I said, deciding it wasn’t worth beating around the bush.

“The one that said Pierce was a shoo-in for nomination and the president was moving at an unprecedented rate toward seeing that nomination through.” Whatever the man had been expecting me to say, it wasn’t that.

“Kendrick,” he said, turning the name over in his mouth. “As in Ivy Kendrick?”

Like he just figured that out , I thought.

“And you’re Henry Marquette,” the man continued, turning an eagle eye on the boy standing next to me. “My condolences on the loss of your grandfather.”

Henry gave a brief nod. “Thank you.”

The reporter held Henry’s gaze a moment longer, then turned back to me. “This is about the Pierce piece?” he said. “Annika led me to believe you needed input on some kind of school project.”

“Let’s call it a school project on the Pierce piece.” I bared my teeth in something vaguely resembling a smile. “You cited an anonymous source, saying that the decision was all but made. I’m wondering what made you think this information was legit.”

“You’re wondering who my source was,” the reporter translated.

He was starting to look like a man who wanted a drink.

“You might want to look into shield laws,” he said.

“For your project. Or”—he flicked his eyes over to Henry—“you could look up what the Supreme Court has to say about the somewhat narrow circumstances in which a reporter can be compelled to give up a source.”

“That would be of interest,” Henry said politely, “if we were attempting to acquire the information via a legal subpoena or in conjunction with state or federal government.”

Carson Dweck huffed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Look, kids, all I can tell you is that my source wishes to remain anonymous, but that the facts I was given have since been verified.”

I had a feeling he’d delivered a slightly less condescending version of that statement to multiple people in the hours since the article had gone up.

“What if we had something you wanted?” I asked pointedly. “Could you point us in the right direction then?”

Those words seemed to take the man by surprise. He smiled slightly. “And what is it that you have that you think I would want?” he asked in a tone that told me he was humoring me.

“An exclusive with Justice Marquette’s grieving grandson.” I saw a flash of interest in Dweck’s eyes. Theodore Marquette’s death was big news, and Henry wasn’t just a tragic figure—he was young, handsome, wealthy, and tragic.

“Sounds like more of a People magazine piece than something for the Post ,” the reporter commented. But he didn’t say no.

“Does that mean you’re not interested?” I asked point-blank.

“It means,” Dweck replied, “that I’m not going to violate journalistic integrity for a fluff piece.”

“What if it wasn’t a fluff piece?” Henry countered.

I stared at him. What was he doing? This—whatever this was—hadn’t been part of the plan.

“No offense, son, but what could you possibly have to tell me that could get me a Pulitzer?”

A warning bell went off in my head. He wouldn’t , I thought, horrified. I tried to catch Henry’s eye.

“Off the record?” Henry ignored me, his attention focused solely on Carson Dweck. The reporter nodded.

“I have reason to believe my grandfather was murdered. And,” Henry continued, “I have reason to believe that the White House is covering it up.” He took a step forward. “Now,” he said, his eyes glittering, “who’s your source?”